The Seven Stages of Grief
by aussiechick21
Summary: There are seven stages of grief, and Sam goes through every one of them after the death of Jessica Moore. Dean goes through them right along with him. Lots of angst and brotherly love within!
1. Shock and Denial

**_Hello guys and gals :)_**

**_I've been in a mood for writing lately! And I just watched the end of the fourth season, about to start on the fifth, and I MISS the days when it was Sam and Dean and no angels or Apocalypse and dumb old Ruby!!! So this is going to be the first multi chapter I've done in a while, and it is going to skip around a bit timewise...I recently lost someone and I know there is no timeline for these stages of grief. But you can be sure of one thing...there will be plenty of angst ahead! And, of course, BigBrotherDean because THAT is my favourite and THAT is what I miss most about the show! If Kripke won't give it to me, well I'll write it my darn self! _**

**_(Obviously I don't own Supernatural, if I did, there would have been a chick flick moment at the end of Season 4 because DAMN they needed it!!! And reviews are fantastic but mostly I would just like to hear from you all again :)_**

**1. SHOCK & DENIAL-**  
_You will probably react to learning of the loss with numbed disbelief. You may deny the reality of the loss at some level, in order to avoid the pain. Shock provides emotional protection from being overwhelmed all at once. This may last for weeks._

Dean isn't one for self help books or touchy feely crap, but this situation is way, way outside the realm of what he knows how to deal with.

He is a good big brother, or at least, he was in the years before Sam went to Stanford. He knows about coughs and colds, about bullies and scraped knees, about first crushes and love letters and asking a girl to the school prom.

He knows that band aids do more than just cover scrapes and cuts to protect them from germs; knows that they can help in the healing of the not so visible wounds too, and has taken his time affixing many to his little brother's war wounds. He knows that flat lemonade is good for a sick stomach, has learnt how to tickle the bottom of the can until all the bubbles are gone before passing the drink on to a sick Sam.

He knows that nerves can make even the deftest of fingers clumsy, and has taken over for Sam when loading a weapon, completing the task with sure, smooth movements, and has done the same when teaching the younger Winchester how to tie a tie.

He knows these things and a multitude more; tricks of the trade picked up in the business of being a big brother.

But he doesn't know how to handle Sam in the hours and days and weeks after Jessica Moore's death.

He picked up hints and advice and habits from watching others while he was growing up; it was Bobby who told him to crush some painkillers and mix them with a spoon of honey for Sam when he was a toddler, a mother waiting outside the school gates for her own son who told him what nits were and how to get rid of them. He vaguely remembers his mother patching his own scraped knees, and he models his own reactions to Sam's needs and wants on this patchwork of advice and memories of strangers and family.

He knows how to handle hurt Sam, sad Sam, tired Sam, moody Sam, pissy Sam and a rainbow of other versions of his brother…but grieving Sam is a stranger even to Dean.

He has no model for this scenario. The only person he knows who has lost someone too is Dad, and Dean is pretty sure that John Winchester's way of dealing with his grief was/is anything but healthy. And Sam has never wanted to be like Dad, anyway.

Dean is only at the end of Sam's street when he glances over at the empty passenger's side and catches sight of an unfamiliar wallet. He can't say the sight displeases him; his parting with Sam could have been smoother, easier. He has turned the car around almost instantly, is heading back down the road he came down when he feels the first stirrings of unexplained dread in his gut, and by the time he brings the Impala to a jerky halt in front of the block of unit, he is scared enough to run, and that is before he even smells the smoke.

Sam is all limbs and grief and panic and fight while Dean is trying to get him out, crying out for his girlfriend, telling Dean no. Dean doesn't listen, though, just grimly holds on and drags his brother out of a burning building for the second time in their short lives. From what he vaguely remembers, it was easier the first time around; Sam was smaller and quieter and didn't struggle nearly so much.

Still, desperation lends Dean strength, and moments later they have half-ran, half-tumbled down the stairs and out the door that is marked, FIRE ESCAPE. Sam is fighting less now, and hardly resists at all when Dean throws an arm over his head and pulls him close as an explosion from upstairs stirs the very ground beneath them.

The door slams shut behind them as they tumble out, and Dean feels Sam wince against him. A few more steps and they are on the lawn below the apartment, looking up at the flames that are spilling out of windows and licking the sides of the building above them.

Sam is coughing, Dean realises, choking and swaying on his feet; he has inhaled a lot more smoke than his older brother, dragged into his lungs while he screamed and fought for his dying lover.

He sways and trembles against Dean and then sags, and the older Winchester follows him down, hands clasped tight around his biceps. He knows all the signs, knows that his brother is going into shock, and he can deal with that because he has seen it a thousand times in a thousand victims, just has to forget that this isn't a nameless face in front of him, this is _Sam._

Sam sinks into a sitting position, all fight gone now, his eyes lost and red and hopeless as he gazes up at the burning building.

"Head down," Dean orders roughly, but his hand is very gentle as he guides Sam's head down to rest on his knees.

Sam coughs and trembles and obeys.

Dean stands above his brother, keeping watch over him as the apartment that was his home burns to nothing but memories along with the girl that he loved. People gather around them, some concerned, some curious, and neighbours bring with them blankets, water, and questions.

The fire brigade arrives too late and the police too early, before Dean has sorted through the jumble of emotions and stories to find one that fits. In the end he tells the truth, still standing over Sam, telling it in a loud, firm voice so that Sam can hear too, can hear the way it's going to be. Dean came over to drop off Sam's wallet. He found the house burning, and dragged his brother out. They couldn't save his girlfriend.

The police are gentle with Sam, and Dean is grateful for that. They ask him gently, is that what happened, is there anything else you can tell us, and Sam answers numbly. Yes, that's the way it went. No, there's nothing else. It hurts Dean to hear the lies as much as it hurts Sam to tell them.

The police thank him, tell him to look after his brother, take his number and Sam's in case they have any more questions. He is accepting cards and shaking hands when he glances down and notices that Sam is missing, and though his heart tightens painfully for a second, it is only a second before his eyes find the dark haired figure of his brother by the Impala.

He says goodbyes and thank yous for both of them and approaches Sam warily, unsure what he will find. He is prepared for anything, he thinks, for pain and tears and blame, even.

He draws near enough to see that Sam is checking weapons, his movements tight and precise and controlled and shielded from prying eyes by the open boot of the Impala. Dean watches him with a furrowed brow, concerned and confused, because Sam's face is set, stoic, a stranger.

Sam has always been emotional, and Dean figures he's just earned himself the mother of all meltdowns, a chick flick moment to rival any movie scene ever made. The life that Sam fought so hard to leave behind, the past that he struggled and strived to bury, has caught up with him and claimed him in one foul, sweeping move.

Dean expected tears, rage, grief, anger. He didn't expect this silent, strong composure.

Sam doesn't meet his eyes, only throws the shotgun into the boot, even this movement controlled.

"We've got work to do." He says, and slams the boot shut.

Dean watches him as Sam stalks around to the passenger side door, and clears his throat as he follows, trying to decide what to do. This denial can't be healthy, can't be good for Sam.

"Sammy…" He says, finally, and the grief that isn't there in Sam's voice is there in Dean's, how weird and fucked up is that? He can feel wetness eyelashes where there is none on Sam's; his little brother's eyes are dry and eerily lit with red and blue from the police lights.

"Sammy," he says again hoarsely, his voice desperate and devastated and inviting, grieving for the life his brother has just lost, inviting him to grieve too.

Sam meets his eyes, and his gaze is calm and composed. "Let's go, Dean." Tight with the effort, and stiff with denial.

He won't grieve, not now, not here. He has work to do.


	2. Pain and Guilt I

**You guys are too kind with your reviews :) it's just nice for me to know that there are people reading!**

**I had to make this chapter a two-parter...there is just so much to cover! Sam has even more guilt than your average person because of the way that Jess died...so it is going to take me more than one chapter to cover it! Poor Sammy...the suffering that I put him through!**

**Not sure about this one...ended up a little chick-flicky? But every time I tried to edit it, I just kept making it longer! SO here it is in its' unedited glory...I don't have a betta reader so bear with me :)**

**2. PAIN & GUILT-**  
_As the shock wears off, it is replaced with the suffering of unbelievable pain. Although excruciating and almost unbearable, it is important that you experience the pain fully, and not hide it, avoid it or escape from it with alcohol or drugs. You may have guilty feelings or remorse over things you did or didn't do with your loved one. Life feels chaotic and scary during this phase._

_Part One_

Dean watches Sam, and worries.

They hang around in Palo Alto for a week, searching for clues, trying to find whatever it was that killed Sam's girlfriend and almost killed him. It makes Dean's mouth dry up to think how close it was, to remember the way that Sam was cowering, not trying to escape.

If Dean didn't come back when he did…

Fuck that. He stops that thought and shoves it away. He did come back, and Sam is okay. Well, maybe not okay. But alive, at least.

Sam sifts through the wreckage of his apartment, of his life, getting ash all over his hands but his face stays blank and emotionless. Dean didn't know Jess but he almost tears up when he finds a necklace twinkling forlornly amongst the ruins; a golden J encrusted with diamonds, a tiny twinkling treasure that has survived untouched.

He hands it to Sam when his brother comes over to see what he has found, and expects some kind of reaction, but Sam's face doesn't change, he just looks at the piece of jewellery for a moment then tucks it in his pocket and moves away.

Dean tries to figure this out, tries to solve the puzzle that is his younger brother, but it is a lost cause. Sam soldiers on and Dean lets him, unsure of what else to do.

* * *

They vanquish 'Bloody Mary's spirit in Toledo, weeks after the funeral and the wake and leaving California behind, all of which Sam was stoic and silent throughout. Dean parks the car on the side of a rain swept sideway and speaks to Sam roughly and firmly about Jess' death not being his fault, but Sam's eyes slide away and Dean knows guilt and avoidance when he sees it.

Then there is a shapeshifter in Cali, and Sam's friends from school are involved, and Sam makes a stubborn stand about going and helping and gets the crap beaten out of him by a thing wearing Dean's face.

Dean really is sorry that Sam has to leave his friends behind, has to lie to them about the life that they lead. He wishes things could be different at the same time as he is selfishly glad that they aren't, because Sam is back with him and Dean can't be sorry for that.

He's used to the strong, silent, stoic Sam by now though, so when he slides back into the driver's seat of the Impala outside a roadhouse on the way out of Cali, he is surprised to see a stranger.

Sam is staring out the windshield, still in the same sitting position Dean left him in, but one glance shows Dean that he is not in the same state that he was in moments earlier. His lower lip is quivering and his eyes are wide and wet.

"Sam?" Dean asks, his voice rough with worry. "What is it?"

Sam's eyes slide over to him, meet his gaze and he looks young and helpless and lost and in _pain_.

Dean slides over on the seat to get closer to him, reaches out and grabs Sam's shoulder that is farthest from him and tugs a little so that Sam turns in the seat to half-face him.

He is remembering the way that the shapeshifter beat Sam senseless, wondering if he missed some injury when checking over his brother; internal bleeding, maybe? Concussion?

"Where does it hurt?" He asks, trying for reassuring but too worried to pull it off properly.

Sam doesn't answer and Dean's concern cracks up a notch. "Sam, come on, kiddo. You gotta tell me what's wrong here." He insists, ghosting his hands up and down Sam's sides, down his arms. "Talk to me."

Sam's voice is small and soft between them. "The last time I saw Becca and Zach, was at Jess' birthday party this year."

Dean frowns at him, at the top of Sam's dark head because his little brother isn't looking at him anymore, he has bowed his head and lowered his eyes to look at the Impala's front seats.

The light is fading fast outside.

Dean runs a hand lightly over Sam's head, from his forehead to the back of his neck, looking for lumps, because he isn't sure what Sam is talking about and he's thinking this must be a concussion. He can't feel any out of place bumps though, so he curves his hand around Sam's neck and cups his chin instead, tilting his brother's face up to check his eyes.

What he finds shocks and dismays him; Sam's eyes are full, brimming with tears and pain, more pain than Dean has ever seen or imagined his brother could feel.

"Jess is dead." Sam informs him, his eyes searching Dean's, scared and hopeful and questioning and pained.

Dean swallows, lets his hand drop to loosely rest on the side of Sam's neck, but his brother doesn't look away; he is searching Dean's face for something and whatever he finds there doesn't help.

Sam starts to tremble, and Dean brushes back some of his bangs helplessly, not knowing what to do. "Sammy…"

"Jess is dead," Sam admits, and then there is a little flood of tears, a small sob escapes him and he bites his lip so hard Dean is afraid he might bite through it. "God…sorry…Dean…" Sam tries to turn away, trying to pull himself together, turns back just as quickly, his voice an apology and a plea.

"Sammy." Dean says, quieter and calmer now, squeezing Sam's shoulder that he still has a hold on, needing Sam to know he doesn't need to apologise for this; that grief is nothing to be ashamed of. The only thing Dean is surprised about is that it took the kid this long.

Sam tries to breathe through the tears and ends up gasping for air instead, raggedly, surprising and scaring himself with the intensity of his pain. Dean says his name again quietly, reaches for him and catches both his shoulders and turns his brother back towards him.

Sam reaches out too and fists Dean's leather jacket, looking bewildered, devastated, frightened. He doesn't protest as Dean tugs him closer on the seat, and when another storm of tears breaks free, he leans forward and buries his face in the collar of Dean's jacket.

"Dean, Jess is dead." He manages, finally, and Dean wraps his arms around his little brother and holds him tight against him as Sam finally allows himself to feel the pain and fall apart.

"I know, Sammy, I know." He murmurs, then he just holds and shushes and strokes Sam's hair while his brother bawls against him like a child.

Dean's legs have gone to sleep by the time Sam finally cries himself out, and Dean keeps one arm around him, holding him close, while he shrugs out of one side of his jacket, then swaps arms and goes through the process again.

Sam is limp and silent against him, except for the occasional sniffle, and Dean wads his jacket up into a soft ball and stuffs it against the window, lowers Sam back and tilts him over so that his brother is curled on his side against the window.

Sam is exhausted from his catharsis, and allows all this, comforted by the smell of the jacket; gunpowder and cheap cologne and Dean.

He watches his brother through heavy lids and sore red eyes as Dean starts the car and eases it out of the parking lot, his face impassive and calm in the streetlights.

He senses Sam watching him and gives him a reassuring half-smile, a gentle pat on the thigh. "Go to sleep, Sammy." His voice is a soft rumble in the dark. "You'll feel better in the morning."

Sam closes his eyes and obeys.

* * *

Morning comes too soon; Sam opens his eyes still feeling weary and blinks at an unfamiliar dirty cream wall in front of him. He vaguely remembers being bundled out of the car and into this room, remembers Dean's voice and Dean's hands, sure and strong, and the last thing he remembers is Dean removing his shoes.

Jess used to do that for him, if he was really drunk or really tired, and the memory makes his eyes burn again.

Jess is dead. Nothing else matters.

He knows that Dean is up, can hear him moving quietly around the room, but he ignores his brother and stares at the wall instead. He doesn't know what to do, what to say. He wants to hide here, curled up in this uncomfortable motel bed, for the rest of his life.

Dean won't allow that, though. "Sam." His brother's voice is half a sigh. "I know you're awake."

Sam doesn't answer, just keeps staring at the wall.

The bed dips at his back and he knows Dean has sat down behind him. A hand lands on his bare ankle and gives him a gentle shake. "Come on sasquatch. Up and at 'em." His brother urges, trying to sound cheerful and falling flat.

Sam stays silent.

"Kiddo, come on. Don't do this." Dean's voice is very gentle, but firm at the same time. "Life goes on, Sammy."

That his brother is adding a pet name into each sentence that he speaks tells Sam just how worried Dean is about him, but the pain and guilt surrounding him are crushing, and he just wants to allow himself to be crushed. He thinks it is what he deserves, anyway.

Life goes on. His brother's empty words echo around them.

"Not for Jess." He whispers.

Dean exhales, long and slow. "Yeah, I know. And that sucks, Sam, but you're not Jess. And you're alive. So come on. Up you get, tiger." The order is punctuated with a light slap to Sam's thigh.

Sam closes his eyes and forces himself to respond, because Dean is asking, and he is trying his hardest to help Sam, and it would be selfish and wrong to ignore that.

He sits up and blinks blearily at the room, awash in sunlight. "What time is it?"

Dean snorts softly as he stands up and moves away. "Try what day is it. You slept for sixteen hours, man."

Sam frowns a little at that. "Really? You should have woken me up."

"Your body needed it, Sam." Dean is hefting his duffle bag onto his shoulder, jiggling the keys in the palm of his hand. Sixteen hours of doing nothing but watch his little brother sleep and he was ready to roll. "You were done in after that fight with the shapeshifter." He adds, on his way out the door. No mention of the catharsis in the parking lot, and Sam is wearily grateful.

The younger Winchester rises, feeling about one hundred years old. His limbs are heavy, his head bows automatically towards his chest as he shuffles towards the bathroom. Jess. Jess. Jess. Her name echos over and over again in his head, a subconscious lament for his lost lover. He wants to collapse back into the bed and stay there. The pain of his grief is too heavy to bear.

He showers automatically, brushes his teeth, combs his hair, dresses in clean clothes. Dean is waiting and watching like a hawk when Sam emerges, and he inclines his head slightly in approval at the sight of him. "I got a lead on a chupacabra two states over." He says cheerfully, stuffing the last of Sam's things into his duffle and lifting it for him. "Drive for the rest of today, maybe even tonight, we can be there by morning. Whattaya say?"

Sam nods heavily, woodenly, because it is what he is supposed to do, he is sure. Dean narrows his eyes a little but doesn't call him on his less than enthusiastic response; figuring this is the best he can ask for.

Sam welcomes the chance to get back into the Impala, to curl against the passenger side door and slide his heavy eyes shut and let his misery roll over him in waves.

He isn't sure anymore whether he is awake or asleep, whether the images of Jess bleeding and burning and dying that haunt him are nightmares or memories. He is sick to his stomach with grief and guilt. He can see his shadowy reflection in the window every time he opens his eyes, and it makes him think of his reflection in the pawn shop.

"It's your fault_. You_ killed her."

He swallows hard, trying to still the nausea that comes with the thought.

His watch says nine at night when they roll through another small town in the middle of nowhere.

"Dean," he says, his voice rough from lack of use, "Can we find somewhere to stop?"

Dean glances at him, and Sam loves and hates him for the concern and pity written all over his face.

"Sure. No problems," his brother agrees, too quickly, and Sam leans his forehead against the cool glass of the window and closes his eyes.

His guilt is suffocating in the car, too much of it crammed into too small a space.

There is a bar right next to the motel, and Sam heads out the second the bathroom door shuts behind his brother.

Dean takes his time in the shower, the warm water soothing muscles that are aching from the amount of time spent cramped in the car, and going a little way towards washing away some of his worries. All of which are, of course, about Sam.

Dean emerges from the bathroom reluctantly, scanning the room absently while he dresses. It is quiet, and there is no little brother to be seen. Uneasy, but not yet worried, Dean opens the room and looks out into the night.

Huffing his displeasure, he pulls out his phone and dials Sam's number, frown darkening when the other phone starts ringing, discarded on the bed. "Rule number one, Sammy, always take your phone." He mutters, scooping it up and pocketing it along with his own. He'll give it to Sam when he finds him. The instinct to find Sam is automatic, he doesn't consider ignoring his brother's absence; making sure Sam is okay is ingrained in Dean as deeply as eating and sleeping.

He picks up the keys to the Impala and shakes off weariness as he steps out into the night. Sam couldn't have been gone for, what, more than half an hour? He can't have gotten far. It occurs to Dean briefly that maybe Sam has disappeared because he wants to be on his own. But he dismisses that thought just as quickly. Sam is in no state to be on his own.

Dean would have to be blind to not see the way that guilt is destroying his little brothers. The nightmares are pretty much a nightly occurrence, and the bags under Sam's eyes and the way he has lost weight are testament to the toll his guilt and pain are taking on him.

There is a bar across the lot and usually Dean would dismiss it first; Sam has never been a big drinker. But then he thinks of Sam's mood, miserable, melancholy, thinks of all he's been through and of the shape shifter and Mary.

If the guy _still _doesn't want a drink, he really is a freak, Dean thinks wryly, and starts trudging across to the bar.

There aren't too many people inside, and Dean spots his brother immediately, in a booth all to himself, with an assortment of empty glasses in front of him, and a half empty bottle of Jack Daniels. Dean is impressed. Sam is a beer drinker, lights not heavies, but today he is sculling the hard stuff as if it's lolly water.

He makes his way over to Sam, past the jukebox, past a couple of guys playing pool, and nods habitually to the pretty bar maid on the way. Sam is his main concern now, though, and there is no time for pretty blonde barmaids.

He stops by the booth, tosses Sam's phone in front of him.

"You don't call, you don't write. I'm hurt, Sammy." He tried for levity, but Sam just looks at him hollowly. Dean sighs and slides into the booth opposite his brother. "Seriously, man, next time leave a note or take your phone. I was worried." The words are out before he can stop them, showing his weak side, but Sam doesn't say anything about it. He just nods.

"Okay." He fills a short glass in front of him and tosses the drink back, barely wincing at the sharp sting of the liquor.

Dean winces for him. "Man, unless you've really brushed up on your drinking in the last few years, you're well on your way to singing karaoke and handing out our fake IDs to the crowd." Sam doesn't blink at the reminder of his less than pleasant past drinking experiences.

Dean reaches for the bottle. "Come on, man," he coaxes, "let's hit the hay, huh? Plenty of time for drinking another day."

Sam moves his wrist minutely, drawing the bottle closer to himself and out of Dean's reach. "Don't wanna sleep." He says firmly. "I want to drink."

"Why, Sam?" Dean demands, a little too hotly. It's been a long day and he's worried, and he doesn't know how to deal with this shit. He wants to help his brother and doesn't know how, and that frustration bleeds out into his tone. "Do you think this is going to help? Do you really think this is going to make you feel better?"

Sam tosses another one back and glares at the bottle darkly. "It might." He mutters. "Dad went on plenty of benders after we lost Mom."

"Yeah, and you've spent your whole life criticising him about the way he handled it." Dean snaps. "This is a little hypocritical, don't you think?"

Sam glares at him for a second, then defiantly takes another drink. Dean growls a little and reaches out and this time does snag the bottle. Sam's reflexes are dulled by grief and alcohol and he glowers at his brother across the table.

"Stop causing a scene, Dean. I can have a drink if I want to. I'm an adult."

"Then start acting like one!" Dean snaps. "You're smarter than this, Sam. You know this isn't the right way to do this. Drinking isn't going to make the pain go away, Sam."

Sam glares at him for a second longer, then suddenly, visibly deflates. His shoulders slump and he lowers his eyes to the empty glass he still clutches in his hands.

"Then what will?" He asks in a tiny, desperate voice, and Dean softens immediately in response. He feels like a jerk. Sam is vulnerable and hurting and Dean shouldn't be so quick to be angry with him.

Sam looks up at him miserably, almost shyly, and in a second Dean is on his feet and out of the booth and beside his brother, crouching down. "Time, Sammy." He says quietly, wishing he could offer more. "Time is the only thing that's going to make it better. And not time spent in bars, okay? Jess wouldn't want you to do this to yourself. Don't hurt yourself anymore than you're already hurting, kiddo."

Sam makes a small hiccupping sound and Dean rises, takes his brother's arm and tugs him upright. "Let's go, okay? Time to call it a night."

Sam follows him out of the bar docilely enough, swaying only a little on the steps, but Dean is there with a firm hand to steady him.

They make their way back to the room through the starlight, silently except for the crunch of their boots on the gravel.

Dean hustles Sam into the shower, throws him clean clothes, turns down his bed while he waits and stifles his own yawns. It's late, and he's tired.

Finally, dressed in boxers and a t-shirt, Sam sits on his bed and watches as Dean set the alarm, brings him a bottle of water. "Drink that, okay? Maybe we can still avoid the hangover." We, not you. If it's Sam's problem, it's Dean's problem too.

"It's my fault, Dean." Sam whispers, not looking at him. There is a slight slur to his words and a sheen to his eyes that Dean knows are signs that all the whiskey he has swallowed on an empty stomach is catching up with him.

"It is _not_, Sam." Dean says firmly, catching hold of his brother by the elbow and giving him a little shake. "Hey. Listen up. This is _not_ your fault."

"If she never met me, Jess would be alive right now."

"We've talked about this, Sam. That sucks, but it doesn't make it your fault."

"It should have been me who died." Sam says brokenly, as if Dean hasn't spoken, and something inside Dean snaps at those words, and he forgets all about being patient and gentle.

"Don't you ever say that again," he snarls, "Not _ever_, Sam!"

He means to kick the bed frame, but he's tired and angry and somehow he kicks Sam's shin, and Sam yelps a little and looks up at him, bewildered and hurt and his eyes swimming.

Dean curses, fuck this situation, anyway, then steps closer and pulls his brother against him in a rough hug. Sam sobs quietly against his stomach, because he is still sitting and Dean is standing above him, and Dean whispers to him, _shhh_ and _I'm sorry_ and _Sammy, it wasn't your fault_.

"I feel so _guilty_, Dean," Sam confesses, exhausted and miserable, and Dean tucks him closer.

"Well you shouldn't. I'm sorry I yelled at you, I'm not mad at you, I'm just mad." He tries to explain, and Sam nods against him. Forgiveness offered automatically. "It's not your fault, Sammy, it's not. Please don't ever say what you just said again."

"I won't." Sam says, wearily, but the idea that his lover's death is somehow his fault has been planted, and nurtured, not least by Sam himself. He may not say it aloud anymore, but dismissing it altogether will be a harder task.


	3. Pain and Guilt II

_Part Two_

Dean isn't one for touchy feely crap, never has been, never will be. But Sam is suffering in a way that Dean can't begin to imagine, and not knowing how to help is the worst kind of helplessness.

He is checking them out of another run down motel while Sam packs the car, waiting for the elderly woman behind the counter to hurry up and sort through her fifty years' of paperwork piled up back there. He is rocking on his heels a little, not particularly impatient, idly surveying his surroundings.

There is a pile of old paperbacks on the counter top, with a hand written sign that reads, 'Secondhand Books. $2" and Dean's eyes fall on the top one, and the title reads, 'The Seven Stages of Grief.'

Normally he would just walk away, but he doesn't normally have to lie awake at night listening to Sam's nightmares.

Dean is sceptical of the idea that grief is something that can be mapped out by a book; he's pretty sure that it isn't something that you can buy a manual for. But anything is better than nothing, and he tosses the paperback next to the bell on the counter with a charming smile.

"Add that to the bill."

The book talks about pain and guilt and Dean can identify that with what Sam is going through. He reads the book in snatches, while Sam is in the shower; while Sam is mercifully…if rarely…asleep. He scans over the pages with a hunter's eye for detail, picking out the important information, trying to find something that will help.

The book says that guilt is a natural emotion, and that's for people whose mother wasn't murdered by the same supernatural entity, who know nothing about the things that really do go bump in the night, whose loved ones die from stepping in front of a bus or one too many Big Macs for the old heart to handle.

If these people feel _'unbearable guilt' _at times, Dean doesn't want to think about the amount of guilt Sam is feeling. Misplaced guilt, Dean stubbornly maintains, but guilt all the same.

And pain, yeah, Sam is feeling plenty of that. Physically and emotionally. He starts throwing himself into their hunts with a ferocity that at first scares Dean, then starts to piss him off. It is always Sam who is getting hurt; a nasty cut on his arm from the hookman, a lamp cord nearly choking him to death in their childhood home, another Wendigo taking a swipe out of his back in Colorado, a spirit slamming his _head_ in a door in Oklahoma.

Dean can't escape the sinking feeling that Sam is deliberately placing himself in harm's way, whether it be conscious or unconsciously, and Dean doesn't really care either way. All he cares about is that Sam cuts it out.

He doesn't bring it up until nearly a week after they vanquish the poltergeist haunting their childhood home in Lawrence, Kansas. He keeps hoping that Sam will get his act together of his own accord; that they can avoid what is potentially another angst filled confrontation.

Another piece of the puzzle that is Sam has clicked into place though, now that Dean knows about his 'dreams that come true', and the fact that his little brother dreamt of Jessica's death months before it happened. He knows now what Sam was hiding; knows what he meant when he said that he hadn't told Dean everything. Dean wants to rip him a new one for that, but after their run in with the poltergeist Sam's neck has a collar of bright purple bruises and his eyes have an even more haunted look and Dean just doesn't have the heart to attack him any more than he has already been attacked. He figures that Sam has enough to process anyway, what with seeing their mom and nearly dying and all.

A new hunt provides a distraction, and they are both keen to throw themselves into it and _be_ distracted.

It's another haunting, and they're more common than you would think. People die, they don't usually like it, and they're not usually happy to go. Most of them are still here, waiting, angry and confused, and it's the Winchesters' job to make them move on.

The place of this haunting is original, though, an old slaughterhouse just out of Detroit. Which means lots of sharp objects for the spirit to throw and even more potential than usual for injuries.

Dean looks over at his bloodied and battered brother after the spirit is vanquished and they are both sitting in the Impala again. Dean himself has barely a scratch; what the spirit gained in quantity of weapons, it lacked in quality of aim. That fact doesn't seem to have helped Sam any though, he is bleeding from multiple cuts and lacerations, including a particularly deep one running almost parallel with his collarbone.

Sam is staring woodenly out the window at the rainy night, ignoring the steady stream of blood from the wound, and Dean tries to stop his hands from shaking as he reaches into the backseat to retrieve one of the towels they keep there for situations just like this.

"Sam!" He barks, his voice loud and rough and angry in the small space between them.

Sam turns a little frown on him, his jaw set moodily. "What?"

Dean shoves the towel against the wound, eliciting a small hiss from his brother. "Hold that there. You're bleeding all over the damn seats." He snaps.

Sam gives him a mutinous look but obeys silently.

Dean turns the key in the ignition and drives them back to their motel and tries not to think about the way that Sam threw himself into harm's way, again and again and again.

Once they are inside Dean pulls himself together, reigns his anger in while he scrubs at his hands in the kitchen sink. He has his back to Sam and that helps, he takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. Then turns back around to face his brother, who is flicking moodily through the TV channels, a small frown line between his eyes.

"I need to have a look at your shoulder." Dean says calmly, crossing over to the small table where he has already dumped the first aid kit on his way in. He pats the back of one of the chairs there in invitation.

"It's fine." Sam says flatly, rejecting another channel choice with a savage press of a button, but Dean can see the paleness of his skin from here, the tightness around his mouth and eyes.

Dean is something of an expert on pain, especially his little brother's.

"It's not fine, Sam." He says, still cool but firm. "Now sit your ass in this chair before I kick it into it."

It's not a threat, just a mild warning, and he knows it could go either way from here. It's possible that Sam is spoiling for a fight; that he would welcome more pain. But Dean is hoping he isn't willing to piss his big brother off that much to get it.

Sam glowers at him, then tosses the remote aside and all but stomps over to sit stiffly in the chair. Dean would smile at the petulance which is reminiscent of a much younger Sam but he is too tired and too worried.

Dean helps him ease his jacket off, would help him unbutton his over shirt and pull it off as well but Sam bats his hands away impatiently. "I'm not two, Dean." He snaps, but Dean doesn't miss the way his brother's fingers are trembling and clumsy with the simple task.

"Then quit acting like it." Dean says coolly, and leans over to get a closer look at his brother's exposed skin. The wound is still bleeding sluggishly, and it is hard to see how deep it is, so Dean straightens up and turns to the first aid kit, soaking some gauze in antiseptic in preparation to clean the cut.

His eyes fall on the dog-eared box of painkillers and he tosses them in front of Sam absently. "You should take a few of those."

Sam ignores him, his face turned away from Dean and his jaw set.

Dean pauses in what he is doing. "Sam." His voice is a warning growl.

"I don't need them." His brother says stiffly, not meeting his gaze.

"Quit lying to me." Dean says tightly. He can see Sam's hands trembling, and up close his brother is even paler under the yellowish motel room lights.

"I don't _want _them." Sam amends his statement, and Dean has had it with being calm and patient.

"Why, Sam?" He raises his voice involuntarily; he's sick and tired of this shit and Sam and not being able to help or even understand and his concern nearly always comes out as anger.

Dean drops the supplies in his hand back in the kit, scrubs a hand roughly over his face, reigning his anger in. It won't get him anywhere, he knows that. Not with Sam. "Man, what is going on with you?" His voice is quieter but no less frustrated.

"What do you mean?" Sam is playing dumb, Dean knows because his brother still won't meet his eyes.

"What do I mean? Look at you." Dean says roughly. "You were like a pincushion for that spirit back there. And don't think I don't know that 90% of those wounds could have been avoided, Sam. And now the macho man act, I don't want to take anything for the pain? What are you, like getting off on pain these days or something?"

Sam doesn't answer, just stares ahead. "Are you gonna fix it or what?" He says finally, tightly, and Dean almost throws up his hands in frustration and despair. How can he fix this?

He'll keep trying, though. Because Sam is his little brother, and it's all he knows how to do. He picks up the gauze soaked with antiseptic. "This is gonna sting." He growls, then pushes it against the wound roughly.

A little too roughly, he realises too late. Sam makes a small, throttled sound of pain in his throat, the sting and the pressure with which Dean applies the gauze making him light headed, and he sways and dips forward on his chair.

He isn't sure if he passed out for a second, but as the haze of pain around him clears he can hear Dean's soft chant above his head, "Sorry, sorry, sorry."

Sam blinks wearily. The last he remembered he was doing a nose dive towards the table, but his face doesn't hurt, only his shoulder. Slowly he takes in his surroundings. Dean's hand, firmly curved around Sam's good shoulder, holding him sitting upright, his brother's warmth at his back. Dean caught him. Of course.

"Sorry," Dean says again, his voice soft and remorseful. Sam nods wearily. The anger drained out of him with the pain and he is just tired and sore.

Dean dabs extra gently at the wound this time, and Sam winces but stays put. He can't see his brother's face, Dean has moved so that he is mostly behind Sam and can support his brother's back with his chest if need be. He holds Sam still, holds him up with his free hand, and Sam lets himself relax into the firm surety of Dean's hold. Dean is here, he thinks wearily. Sometimes that's the only thought that keeps him going.

"Just because you had a vision of Jess dying, that still doesn't make it your fault, Sam." Dean's quiet words are unexpected, and Sam blinks impatiently at the sting in his eyes to match the one in his shoulder.

He wants desperately to believe Dean's words, but he knows they aren't true. Of course it is his fault. He should have told her, should have warned her. He's a freak, a freak who has visions of people dying, and if there was one good thing that could have come of that it's that he might have saved Jess. But he didn't, he didn't say anything because he was a coward, and now she's dead. And it's all his fault.

Dean has stopped cleaning the wound, really. He strokes the gauze slowly over Sam's skin, the pain from such a gentle movement no more than a tickle. The motion is slow and monotonous, lulling his brother, and Dean can tell because Sam is as relaxed as Dean has seen him in months, and swaying slightly in his older brother's grip.

"You didn't know they were visions, Sammy." He says quietly, his eyes on Sam's shoulder, making sure the bleeding is stopping. "How the hell could you? Of course you thought they were just nightmares. After what happened to Mom. And if you had told Jessica, what do you think that would have changed, anyway? Something still would have killed her, Sam."

"I should have been there." Sam's voice is so quiet Dean almost misses it, but he doesn't because he is listening hard, using this rare moment of calm and quiet to try and mend his broken little brother.

"You _were _there, Sam, and it didn't help." He says gently. "Dad was there when Mom died, and that didn't help, either."

"I should have protected her!" Sam insists. He isn't relinquishing his hold on his guilt so easily. It's his, all his, a part of him now and he can't imagine living without it.

Dean allows the outburst without letting go of his brother, waits a minute before he says softly, "You couldn't have protected her, Sammy. What do you think you could do that Dad couldn't?" Sam doesn't answer, doesn't have one. Dean lets the silence speak for itself. "You have to stop this, Sam." He says softly at last, making sure there is no confrontation in his tone.

"Stop what." Sam's voice is small and barely audible but Dean hears and responds.

"This. Stop punishing yourself." He says quietly. "Mentally and physically." He punctuates the last word with a very gentle poke to his brother's injured shoulder, and Sam winces away. "You keep going the way you're going, man, you're gonna get yourself killed." Sam doesn't answer, and Dean's voice hardens minutely. "Jess wouldn't want you to get hurt, Sam_. I_ don't want you to get hurt. And no matter what _you_ think you deserve in that warped head of yours, you don't _deserve_ to get hurt."

Sam winces again at the choice of words and Dean knows he has hit a nerve.

He tugs at Sam lightly until his brother has his back leant against Dean's chest again, and he can keep up the pretence of needing the closeness to attend to Sam's shoulder. Once Sam is back against him he relaxes into the contact, and Dean presses on quietly.

"The way you're going, you're gonna get one or both of us hurt, or killed." Sam has plenty of guilt, may as well use some of it for a better cause than keeping him up at night. Dean knows Sam would never willingly put his brother in danger. "You know I'm always going to try and protect you from danger, Sammy." He presses. "If you keep putting yourself in danger, you put me in danger, too."

Sam is silent while he processes this for a minute, then he sags a little and drops his head back against Dean's chest and closes his eyes. "You're right, Dean. I'm being an ass. Sorry." The words are weary but the apology is heartfelt.

"I'm not looking for an apology here, Sammy."

Sam tilts his head forward again, away from Dean's chest, to shake it in hopeless frustration. "What do you want me to say, Dean?"

His older brother lays a hand on the top of his head and tilts it back against his chest again, and Sam allows this, sinking back into the warmth that is his brother and that is all that is keeping him from sinking into despair.

Dean's fingers card through his hair and over his scalp carefully, and Sam lets him check for bumps and lumps, his eyes sliding wearily closed again. He is so tired. Hunting and grieving at the same time is exhausting, he feels it down to his bones.

Dean stays silent for long minutes, letting his brother relax again.

"I want you to say that you know Jessica's death isn't your fault." He answers his brother's question finally, his voice a soft rumble somewhere above Sam's head.

"Dean…" Sam trails off helplessly.

"What, Sam? What else you got? Coz I know all about the visions now, and I still say it doesn't change anything, not a damn thing. Blame the thing that killed her, little brother, but you gotta stop blaming yourself. It was _not your fault.:"_

"Just because you say something doesn't mean it's true Dean." Sam says miserably.

Dean snorts softly behind him. "Of course it does. I'm your big brother."

Sam's mouth curves up slightly and he snorts a little in return, wishing it were that simple. "I get what you're trying to say, Dean, I do." He sighs heavily, pressing back a little with his head against Dean's chest to emphasise his words. "I just….I guess…" He fumbles with his words, huffs another sigh of frustration and impatience at his inability to express himself.

Dean waits patiently, fingers still tangled in Sam's hair, hoping that the touch is reminding him physically that he isn't alone, that Dean is there and wants to help and will listen if Sam wants to talk.

"I guess…I want to hang onto the guilt, because…because it's familiar now." Sam confesses at last. He feels a little embarrassed; his words are slightly melodramatic, he thinks, but it's easier to voice his feelings with Dean standing behind him so that Sam doesn't have to look him in the eye while he speaks. He realises wearily that Dean is probably very aware of exactly that fact, but he's started speaking now and he may as well get it out.

"If I didn't feel guilty, then I wouldn't know…I wouldn't know what to feel." He sighs again, but this time it is weary and quiet, none of the frustration or irritation of earlier. "Focusing on the guilt…it gives me something else to think about, other than the pain, I guess."

He falls silent, suddenly tired to his very core.

Dean waits another long moment to make sure Sam is finished speaking, the pads of his fingers rubbing very slightly and very gently at the back of Sam's head while he waits. The motion is soothing and lulling and Sam sinks back a little more, sinks further into the warmth and strength that is his brother.

"What you're saying makes sense, Sam." Dean says quietly at last, and Sam blinks wearily.

"Does it?"

"Yeah, it does." Dean confirms in the same hushed tones. "You just lost the woman you love. Of course the pain that you're feeling is terrible. Of course it hurts. And of course you want a distraction from that." Sam doesn't even have the energy to be surprised that Dean understands what Sam is feeling; that he is able to articulate it better than Sam can himself.

"But dude, what you're doing? The way you're distracting yourself? Letting all that guilt eat you up inside?" Dean's hand leaves his shoulder briefly to tap gently against Sam's chest; the same spot that physically_ hurt_ some days, that seems to be the epicentre of Sam's suffering. "What you're doing isn't healthy, Sam." The words are firm but the tone is gentle. "You have to stop it, man. This mission of self destruct that you're on? Jessica wouldn't have wanted that for you."

The words are quiet, the admonishment gently delivered, but it still hurts. Because it's true, and Sam knows it.

"You need someone, something to blame, I get that." Dean continues, still quiet. "And you know, some people, when someone they love dies, of cancer or of AIDS or because they walked in front of a bus, they've got no one and nothing to blame, Sam. But Jessica didn't die of old age and she didn't die in some random accident. That thing killed her. So blame the thing that killed her, Sam. Hate it all you want."

Suddenly the warmth of Dean at his back was gone, and his brother was there beside him, crouching down to put himself at Sam's eye level, reaching across to grab the arm of the chair Sam is sitting in and tug it sideways so that his brother is facing him. He puts himself directly in Sam's line of vision and waits a beat, until his younger brother raises weary brown eyes to meet the elder's direct, open gaze.

"But quit. Blaming. Yourself." Dean's voice is low, hard and soft at the same time as only Dean can be. "Her death is _not_ your fault."

Sam blames the way his eyes are burning on how tired he is; and he honestly is exhausted. His emotions are so intense and so many these days; and he feels like he has felt them all in the space of an hour. He blinks a few times, trying to keep a hold on his emotions. He won't cry. He won't. Dean has seen him break down too many times over the last few months.

A solitary tear betrays him and splashes down off his lashes, landing on his brother's hand where it rests on the arm of his chair.

"Sorry, Dean," Sam says automatically, his voice small and breaking a little at the end, and not a second passes before he is wrapped snugly in Dean's arms and his face is hidden against Dean's shoulder.

"You don't have to be sorry, Sammy." Dean's voice, quiet and tired, somewhere near his right ear. "You're allowed to grieve. It's natural, it's normal. But you're not allowed to keep blaming yourself, okay? That part of it has to stop."

And Sam finds himself nodding into Dean's shoulder, because despite everything, Dean's words tonight have reached him. He's heard them and they've made sense. He takes a shaky breath to calm himself, to help ground him along with the feeling of Dean's warm, strong arms holding him close.

"Okay." He even manages to speak, waits a beat before pulling away from the hug himself, and Dean lets him go, his face softening when Sam meets his gaze and gives him a very small smile. A watery, hesitant smile, but a genuine one nonetheless, and one of the first indications that Dean has seen in a long time that his brother will be okay.

He squeezes Sam's thighs lightly. "I don't want to have this conversation again, okay?"

Sam nods, a little more surely. "Okay. Dean... Thanks."

Dean brushes this off easily; thanks are not needed, not for being there when his brother needs him.

He rises with a gentle final pat to Sam's thighs. "Come on, princess. Dry your eyes. Time for bed."

Sam gives a small, genuine snort of laughter and shakes his head, but he obeys. And Dean retreats to his own bed feeling lighter than he has in a long time, basking in the relief of finally having been able to help his brother with his grief and pain and guilt.

He doesn't know then that Sam will take his advice to find someone or something other than himself to blame literally, and that anger will be the next problem that they have to deal with.

That is in the near future, but still not near enough to worry the Winchester brothers tonight. Tonight, for the first time in a long time, they will both sleep peacefully.


End file.
